


Odd One Out

by fadeverb



Series: Leo [11]
Category: In Nomine
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-02
Updated: 2013-08-02
Packaged: 2017-12-22 04:00:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/908646
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fadeverb/pseuds/fadeverb
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Leo is not a femme fatale, but he can fake it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Odd One Out

"Come on," says Zhune. He's trying to give me puppy dog eyes, but he's lousy at it. Suave he can pull of; endearing, no. "This will be a cakewalk. All we need you to do is this one little thing."

Under other circumstances, the "we" part would be my sticking point. I don't like working with unknowns, and after the way some turned out, "an old friend of Zhune's" isn't a ringing endorsement. But Phil hasn't shown himself to be a complete moron, which means my point of contention is at what Zhune wants me to do, rather than who he wants me to do it with.

"Look," I say. "We have a perfectly good Impudite right here." I point to Phil, whose proclivities are such that "perfectly good" is not an accurate description of the man, but he hasn't tried to kiss me or kill me, which is more than I can say for some "old friends" Zhune's introduced. "So if we want to convince a human of anything, I'm not the one we call on. Right?"

"But we're Charming him for five minutes and a passcode," says Phil. "We're trying to seduce him. And by "we," we mean you. You're the only one with a female vessel, and he won't go for men."

"Unless he goes for Calabim, he won't be interested in me, either." This is an argument I'm not going to win unless I start punching people, and I know Zhune can take me. "Since when am I be the social one?"

"You're good with people," says Zhune. Corrects himself, after a moment's thought: "Good with humans. Besides, you don't have to have sex with him. Keep him distracted overnight without reason to be suspicious, and it'll suffice."

"Or we could knock him over the head and stuff him into the trunk of a car," I suggest. "That would keep him distracted."

"And not suspicious?"

"Stop focusing on the nitpicky details, Zhune. Look at the big picture."

Which is how I find myself playing the femme fatale while the boys get to have the fun of breaking and entering.

Life isn't fair.

The bar where our chump of the week is located has that lack of personal style that characterizes bars catering to a clientele more interested in each other than their surroundings. Once I've stepped inside, I couldn't tell you what city the place belongs to, and the music blaring over the speakers is what you expect. Five minutes outside the place and I won't be able to describe any characteristic that distinguishes it from two dozen other bars I've seen in the last six months. I beat my way through the crowd with a few well-placed elbows, acquire a bottle of beer suitable for slamming over someone's head in a pinch. Then it's time to hunt down the target.

He doesn't look like much, even by human standards. Not geekish enough to stand out in the crowd of yuppies and college students: standard office casual wear, a haircut like anyone else's, average height, thin glasses like you expect a college professor to wear. He looks, come to think of it, a great deal like the chemistry adjunct I had for one semester, plus ten years and minus twenty pounds. If tonight's like every other night, he's going to finish the beer that's sitting in front of him, check his watch, look around the crowd, and go back to the lab. The lab where, at this moment, two industrious Servitors of Theft are sifting through huge amounts of paperwork looking for the data that we've been paid to acquire.

Which is why I'm stuck in here. The cigarette smoke is heavy enough to annoy me, and I like the smell. I shove my way through the crowd, grab the seat across from him, and try out my beer. The local microbrewery deserves credit for beer that doesn't taste like dishwater, but not enough that I'd seek it out again. The last time we got close to San Francisco, I left with six cases of beer in the trunk and Zhune griping at me for the next state and a half that we couldn't swipe a zippy sports car because of the luggage.

"Um," says the man across the table. Not a promising start. It's no wonder he goes home alone. If I still had my old vessel--hell, any of my old vessels--I'd be better at dealing with people, but what's charming coming from a man isn't the same from a woman. If I had my old vessel back, I wouldn't be here. Net gain. It's just as well the mark's supposedly desperate, because I still haven't parsed social interaction from the female side. Playing the male side's not that different from being an ordinary demon: smile at the right people while keeping them aware of the running dominance games, be aggressive when you want something, act like you own the place. They call it confidence, and it works. I try it in this vessel, opinion seems to be divided between whether it's adorable, bitchy, or strong. Two of three will still get me what I want, even if I have to resist the urge to punch people who condescend.

I set down my beer. "I wanted to sit down," I tell the man. "This chair was open. Take it or leave it."

"I was going to offer to buy you a drink," he says, "but, um. Never mind." I can barely hear him over the noise of the bar. Did no one teach these people about inside voices? There's something wrong with a world where I could do a better job of raising kids than most adults I've met. So long as no one objects to the pyromaniac angle. But what's a little destruction between friends?

"It's a lousy way to start," I tell him, and lean across the table so that I don't have to shout. "You're either implying that you can buy someone, or you're being taken advantage of by a woman who has no interest in you beyond theh free drinks. Now, if what you're looking for is to buy sex, it's a decent start, given how hard it is to buy that legally. It's not like the culture around here doesn't already imply that women have sex for sale, while men are required to coax it out of them via roundabout applications of money."

He blanches. Given that he was pretty white already, it's hard to tell, but there it is. "I didn't mean to imply--"

"Most people won't take it that way. Because they don't think about it. I'm just saying, if you don't want a financial transaction, keep the money out of your pickup lines."

"What, and destroy the economic foundation these bars are built on?"

I crack a smile at that one, because this isn't going to last long if I don't give him some encouragement. "And wouldn't that be a terrible loss to...someone."

"The frat boys," he says. "And the yuppies."

"Wait, now you're claiming you're not a yuppie? I feel lied to."

"You need a better car to be a yuppie," he says, and he smiles back at me. "And higher-quality business cards."

"Inferior business cards? That's the sign of non-yuppies? Now I know what to look for."

He digs out a wallet, and passes me his card. There's a little beaker icon on it. Very Vapulan. Pity he's not; this would be more interesting if I were trying to coax a demon into doing something. Or an angel. No, wait, bad thought. Trying to coax angels into anything is a recipe for pain and disaster. Best to keep away from them, even if they are more interesting than humans. "See?" says the man. "It's not linen, or full-color, or shiny, or anything. Basic boring business cards."

"Very alliterative," I say. The card proclaims him to be Steve Alding, which is good; I'd hate to spend this much time chatting up the wrong man because of poor lighting. "You're a chemist?"

"Biomedical engineer," says Steve, "but they didn't have any clipart for that when I got my business cards printed up. Besides, do I really want a business card showing a little probe entering a body?"

"It would be memorable."

"There is that." He gives my near-empty beer bottle a glance, and says hesitantly, "So, um, if you have five dollars, I can buy you another beer while I'm getting one for myself."

"Bonus points for remembering what was said earlier in the conversation. But I'm not looking for another beer." If I have a second I'll want a third, and then by the six or seventh of something with this alcohol content I'll start getting less smart, which isn't useful for finishing the job. "Want to get out of here for somewhere with less ambient noise? That and the ubiquitous frat boys are giving me a headache."

"Dear God," says Steve, and I wonder for an instant if I clued him in somehow, not that he's supposed to be aware of the War. "You just used ubiquitous in casual conversation. Marry me?"

"If you're that impressed by ordinary vocabulary, I can only imagine your standards are low. But that's okay." I stand up, and grin at him, toothily. It was a good smile on my old vessel: charming, aggressive, roguish. On this one, Zhune tells me it looks like I'm about to go for the throat. "Outside?"

On the street, five strains of so-called music clash for dominance. I duck down an alley into a parking lot full of expensive cars, and I don't look back until I'm there. Sure enough, there's Steve, trailing along behind me. Good boy. "I never got your name," he says, catching up.

"Because you didn't ask." I grin to take the edge off it as he retreats into flustered again. "Leah. If you make a Star Wars joke, I _will_ punch you."

"There goes my next line." He stuffs his hands into the pockets of his slacks, completely ruining any vestige of the yuppie image. "So, um, Leah. Want to grab something to eat? I know this one place that won't be very full--I mean, it's because the food's not great, but if you wanted to get out of the noise..." He trails off hopefully. The man does puppy dog eyes better than Zhune.

"Sure," I say. "Lousy food is better than lousy music, even if they charge you for it."

As promised, the pizza is lousy. I pretend to be interested in his explanation of what he does at work for all of three sentences before we agree to move on to other topics. We do fifteen minutes on why it's acceptable for women to joke about doing violence to men but not the other way around, except for when it's not, and twenty minutes complaining about the food. If I weren't so annoyed at the whole situation, I'd be enjoying myself.

He tells me confidentially, "I don't usually do this sort of thing. Um. Go to dinner with people I just met."

"Never would have guessed." I cover my half of the check and a decent tip besides. The tip's because the waitress was surly enough to remind me of the barbecue place I left behind with my first vessel and first Role. I wonder if that place ever burned down. "Next you're going to tell me you don't usually take women home to your place after you've just met, right?"

"I wasn't going to," he begins.

"Why not?"

Sometimes the simplest arguments work best.

He owns a house too big for one person, with a dingy front lawn and a garage too full to park in. I let him babble about whatever he feels like, since he hasn't shut up since we got to the car, while I scout out the house under the guise of him showing me around. Everything's black and white, mostly white, the way people with kids and pets can't decorate. The office has a locked filing cabinet, computer equipment worth more than the last car I stole.

Then there's the library. I think I'd kill for that. I couldn't keep it, which makes even wanting it an exercise in frustration, as usual. What's the use of working for Theft if I never get to keep anything I like? It all breaks or gets left behind in some mad rush out of town or finds itself in the hands of the person who hired us.

The human smiles at me tentatively. Poor guy's been kicked about this one before. "You like to read?"

"All people worth talking to do." I keep my hands in my pockets instead of messing up books with my entropy buzz. Not that the books are so very shiny; they have the look of ones that have been read, not stuffed on a shelf to make the place seem more serious. "Wouldn't have taken you for a fan of the classics, though. Aren't you supposed to be into science fiction and books with glowing swords and dragons on the covers?"

"Don't tell anyone," he says, "but I minored in lit. I mean, they make you take all these liberal arts classes for requirements anyway, so I figured I might as well."

"Your secret's safe with me." Bronte, Austen, Trollope, Wordsworth, Hume, Locke. Maybe Zhune will buy me a library if I complain about this job enough. He keeps threatening to fly us to some tropical island, and I'd rather have a stack of books than sand in my hair. I give in and pull down a book from the shelf. "It's been years since I read any of Austen's juvenilia. Is this a new collection?"

"Limited edition hardcover," he says. "It's a book club thing. You can borrow it, if you want."

"I don't live around here." I put the book right back where I got it. "I'm only passing through."

"Oh." He pulls himself together from that one. "Visiting someone?"

"Passing through." I run my fingers over the spines of a dozen books I'd rather be reading than whatever it is I'm doing here. "I do a lot of traveling."

"Do you enjoy that?" He sits down on the arm of a couch, watching me while I'm keeping my eyes elsewhere. "All the travel."

"It's a living." I've hated every supervisor I ever had for my old Roles, but I liked having the Roles. Slide right into the middle of humanity and pretend you're someone just a little better than the rest of them, instead of one more expendable soldier in the War. I'm tired of this conversation, and of wanting what I can't have. I step forward and kiss him. "Let's be honest. You're not going to hear from me again. I'll stick around until morning, and then I'm gone. I'm not leaving you a phone number or an email address, and I won't be looking you up the next time I'm in town, if I ever am in this city again. That said, are you still interested?"

He swallows. "I wish--"

"Don't. Take what you can get. You'll be happier."

"Okay," he says. "Right." Like he has any say in this. Sometimes I wonder if humans make any meaningful choices, or only stumble through what their environment's prepared them for, one thing after another as it's set before them. Of course, if I start thinking about that I also wonder if demons do it any differently, and that way lies resentment, so I drag him off to his bedroom to lie back and think about literature.

At somewhere between midnight and dawn--my watch has stopped working again--I leave him in bed so I can search his office. The file cabinets would be easy enough to resonate open, but I'm trying for subtle, so I take the time to pick the lock. Steve saves all his tax paperwork for ten years back. Admirable, and boring. I sort through utility bills, birthday cards, undergraduate essays with red marks across them. The paper on Trollope distracts me only for long enough to confirm that for a scientist, he can write decently. Not well, but decently. Enough so that I could have conversations with him about lit essays, if I were going to stay around long enough to do that.

I never stay anywhere for long. It's a good idea to keep moving. Less likely to have one of my many enemies catch up. How a laid-back guy like myself manages to piss off so many people I've never understood. I try to do my job, and a few years later I have more Words than I like to count ready to shoot me, and a few trying to drag me off for Heavenly brainwashing. You'd think they'd focus on someone who tries to anger people, like my ex-girlfriend, but no, it's me they're after.

Third drawer down, I hit lab notes. Biomedical engineering isn't my field, but I know what we're looking for, which means it only takes me a half hour of trying to handle paper by the corners and put it back in the right place before I track down what I want. I copy everything relevant onto sheets of paper from the printer, fold the copies into my jeans pockets, and get back to bed before the sky goes gray.

I don't think he's an early riser by habit, but he's up by seven, and makes me breakfast, acting like I might disappear at any moment and he has to convince me to stay. Which is pretty much accurate, but it's not going to work. We spend breakfast talking about the books we hated reading in college, and then I kiss him goodbye at the door. It's a stupid little human drama that doesn't mean anything.

"You have my card," he says.

"I'm not going to call."

"I know," he says, with a sad little smile. He could never do suave or self-assured, but he could grab some sap's heart with that pathetic sweetness. "But you have it, and...you have my number. Just in case."

"Don't get your hopes up," I tell him. It's one more way to live disappointed.

"I never do."

Zhune and Phil wait for me in dingy little bar where people go to sit alone and drink, not to hook up. Especially early on a weekday. Phil scoots over to give me a place to sit, while sliding me a beer. He can live a little longer. "Bad news," says the Impudite. "Hope you didn't burn any bridges behind you, because we need to get him out of the way again. Didn't find what we were looking for. Spent the whole night in that damn lab, and nothing. We might need someone who can do computers. Can you do computers?"

"Are you kidding? They die if I visit three websites in a row." I yank out the papers, and toss them on the table. "How about this?"

Zhune spreads the paper across the table, around empty bottles still haven't been cleared away. The wait staff here seems inclined to leave us all alone. "You're a marvel," he says. "So the workaholic monkey takes his work home with him, too."

"Of course he does. Now can we get this over with?" I finish my beer, and steal Phil's. He knows better than to object. "Let's get out of this city."

"I have what I need," says Phil. He leaves after some protracted discussion with Zhune about good old days, which I ignore in favor of getting through a third bottle of beer. It's cheaper and weaker than I'd like, but better than nothing. By the end of the second bottle, I can't taste breakfast anymore. Waffles with canned whipped cream, real maple syrup, and a sad little man glowing at me from across the table because he was that damn happy to have me there a while longer. I need another shower.

"I'll make it up to you," says Zhune, once Phil's gone. "I know you don't do humans, but it worked, didn't it?"

"You'd think the Vapulans could do their own dirty work." I've run out of beer, and now that I want another, there's not a waiter who'll acknowledge me to bring me one. "Like he couldn't have cozied up to the guy as a friend and worked out a way to get at the files? He's a fucking Impudite, he should be able to manage that."

"Some Sparky fluffwing has been lurking around," says Zhune, and he can get a waiter with one casual wave for service. It would annoy me more if it didn't end up with a fresh bottle in front of me. "Can't risk him showing up in a social network if the monkey gets deep scanned. He has a Role to worry about."

"You didn't tell me there were angels involved."

"You didn't ask."

"Zhune, one of these days I _am_ going to kill you. Probably right before I get jumped by another Judgment triad you've pulled down on me."

"I can hardly wait." He has a sexy James Bond smile. We should stick to robbing straight female scientists. Zhune can do seduction better than I can. He does the social stuff, I blow things up, we both stay happy. It should be that simple. "Don't worry about it, Leo. You blipped through this monkey's life for twelve hours. If anyone picks up on it, it won't be someone who can trace you down."

"You say this now." I gulp down my beer, fast enough to make me hiccup. "You say this now, but it always ends up screwing me over in the end. Every time."

"You're such a pessimist," says Zhune sweetly. Best partner I've ever had. He'll buy me beer until the bartender cuts me off, and then bring me a case once we find a motel room somewhere far away from here.

"Always," I say. "Let's get out of here."


End file.
